Red Hot

Chili on the menu of a white-tablecloth joint might be the equivalent of hand-tooled cowboy boots on the feet of a Texas millionaire, a sign that the owner is really a regular guy even if he does sling a whole lot of raie en vinaigrette . Since the Southwestern thing started going strong, it’s been almost as easy to find a bowl of red in a local restaurant as it is to find a piece of grilled swordfish.

But Chasen’s famous product is distinguishable from a bowl of Dennison’s only by a copper chafing dish and an 1800% price differential. “Uncle George’s Chili” at Patrick Terrail’s late Hollywood Diner tasted as if Uncle George had been employed by a junior high school cafeteria in the Midwest. The “Kick-Ass Chili” at 72 Market Street goes better with a bottle of Bandol Rouge than it does with a cold longneck Bud, if you know what I mean. And Ken Frank’s chili at La Toque, though exquisitely spiced, is made with duck.

Basically, if you want to taste real chili in Southern California, you’re stuck with chili cookoffs, where you’ll find that championship chili is more macho ritual than foodstuff, more about funny hats than about American cuisine, and made by men who are apt as not to throw in a handful of kimchi and a soupcon of possum liver just for fun. Or you could check out Chili John’s on the sleepy end of Burbank, which has been the best place to go for chili in Los Angeles for nearly 50 years, and whose parent restaurant has reportedly been the best place to go for chili in Green Bay, Wisc., for 40 or so years longer than that. Possum liver would never make it through the door here.

It still looks like 1945 at Chili John’s, with neat gingham curtains and ancient Coca-Cola gear, and a sleek, curved dining room that looks as if the architect had caught the wispy tail-end of Streamline Moderne. Along the U-shaped counter, there are cruets of Tabasco sauce and bowlsful of oyster crackers, pecks of pickled peppers and containers of freshly chopped onion. Covering one wall is an astonishing painted mural of what looks to be the lake country of the Canadian Rockies, all greenery, waterfalls and soaring peaks, except that right in the center a tiny figure of a Mexican woman drives her burro along a mountain trail. A few decades of yellowing menus are posted on the other wall, differing from the current one mostly in price. (Not that anybody bothers to look at the menu--five out of six orders seem to be for chili-with-beans, hot. The sixth might be for chicken chili, which is a little gritty but nicely spiced, or for chili on soft, long-simmered spaghetti instead of beans--an acquired taste.)

From a series of stainless-steel vats in the center of the room, the counterman scoops out pinkish beans, mounding them high in a yellow plastic bowl, then carefully spoons thick, brick-red chili over the beans until the bowl nearly brims over onto the counter. With a flourish, he tops off the chili with a splash of bean water. He cocks an eyebrow, which means, “Would you like an extra little drizzle of orange grease with that?” You nod. Halfway through the meal, he may spontaneously decide to top up your bowl.

It is wonderful chili, dense and comforting, lean and hearty, with a cumin wallop and a subtle, smoky heat that creeps up on you like the first day of a Santa Ana wind. It’s the kind of stuff that stays with you for a while, flavoring your breath for half a day even if you don’t pile on the onions. It also goes strangely well with a cold glass of buttermilk, which is good, because Chili John’s serves nothing stronger than near beer.

The beans are nice, too, firm and smooth, with a rich, earthy bean taste clearly perceptible even through the pungency of the chili. You can get chili with beans andspaghetti, for a much tastier Burbank approximation of Cincinnati’s famous five-way chili, or beans and spaghetti alone: Tex-Mex pasta fazool.

Dessert is that Midwestern oddity, pineapple-cream pie, cool, smooth and sweetly delicious, with a dusting of graham-cracker crumbs where you might expect a crust. Pick up a pie to go.

Chili John’s, 2018 W. Burbank Blvd., Burbank, (818) 846-3611. Open Tuesday-Friday, 11 a.m. to 7 p.m., Saturday 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. Cash only. No alcohol. Takeout. Lot parking in rear. Lunch for two, food only, $9-$12.